Grief, Love, and Healing Through Music

Cam stood in the dim hospital hallway, staring at the scuffed tile floor like it might answer him. Outside the room, machines beeped in sync with his ragged heartbeat. He had not known that silence could be this loud. His fists clenched the hem of his coat as if holding tighter; he could keep something from slipping through.
Inside, Juno lay motionless, her face serene, as if she had merely drifted into a nap. There were no wires anymore. No soft humming of support. Just stillness. And the unbearable finality of it.
When the nurse touched his shoulder and whispered, "Take your time," Cam did not nod. He stepped inside, heart pounding, and knelt beside her bed. His breath fogged the chilled air.
"They said you didn't feel pain," he murmured. "That it was instant. Like turning off a light."
He didn't believe them.
He took her hand, surprised by its cold weight. Her fingers, once always moving—tapping, twirling, dancing invisible symphonies—were still. And his whole world felt wrong.
"You weren't supposed to go first," he said. "You always said you'd outlive us all."
Juno had been everything. The loudest laugh in the room, the messiest desk in the studio, the softest heart he had ever known. She played piano like she was speaking directly to God—and sometimes like she was arguing with Him.
Cam let out a choked laugh and rested his forehead on her hand.
That was the last time he spoke to her body.

The days blurred. The funeral came too fast. Everyone told him she was in a better place. He wanted to scream every time they said it. Her place was here. With him. At the keyboard, yelling at him for mistaking a B-flat for a B. Slurping ramen noodles at midnight. Falling asleep mid-sentence, her head nestled against his arm.
He stopped playing music. The grand piano in the studio collected dust.
Juno's room at his apartment remained untouched. Her favorite sweater hung on the back of the chair. He buried his face in it some nights. It stopped smelling like her after a month.

Winter settled in like a weight. Cam avoided people, ignored calls, and skipped work. He wandered the city, headphones in, but no music playing. Just the hum of the world.
One evening, as flurries drifted down, he found himself outside their old high school. The doors were locked, but he remembered the fire escape.
He climbed it without thinking. The rooftop was exactly as they had left it years ago—graffiti hearts, a broken telescope, and a view of the skyline she had loved.
He sat on the edge, legs dangling over a dizzying drop.
"This is where you told me," he whispered. "That you loved me."
Back then, she had said it like a fact. Like telling someone the sky was blue.
And he had said it back, terrified and elated.
Now, the sky was the same endless stretch. But she was gone.
He took out his phone. The last voicemail from her was only five seconds.
"Hey. I bought those orange sodas you like. Come home."
He listened again. And again. Until the battery died.

Spring came slowly.
Cam started walking past the music store again. He didn't go in, but he'd stop and watch the kids inside—plunking keys, strumming chords.
One afternoon, a ten-year-old girl sat on the piano bench, frowning hard. Her fingers were too small to reach the octave.
Cam hesitated. Then, I stepped inside.
He crouched beside her. "Try this. Tuck your thumb more. Like this."
She looked at him, wary. Then, I tried it. The chord rang out, hesitant but whole.
He smiled.
She did, too.

He returned the next day. Then the next.
The store owner offered him a teaching spot. He declined. Then, I accepted a week later.
He didn't play Juno's pieces yet. But he started humming.

On the anniversary, he returned to the rooftop. The same breeze tugged at his sleeves.
He carried a notebook. Inside, scribbled lyrics. Half-finished thoughts.
And a poem she had written at sixteen:
"The piano is a falling thing,
Each note a drop of rain.
Some break. Some bloom.
But always they remain."
He read it aloud, voice breaking on the last line.
Then, slowly, he began to sing.
Not loudly. Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough to feel her smile in the breeze.
Enough to come home.